


Peter's Princess

by veryconfidentsandwichshapedfreedom



Category: Divergent - All Media Types, Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Porn, Barebacking, Body Image, Boys Kissing, Daddy Kink, Don't Have to Know Canon, Don't Try This At Home, Drew should probably see a therapist, Emotional Sex, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Fluff and Smut, Foreplay, French Kissing, Friends to Lovers, Gay, Gay Sex, Good Peter, Gratuitous Smut, Gym Sex, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Large Cock, Lemon, Light Masochism, Loss of Innocence, Loss of Virginity, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Murder Kink, Nipple Play, Nipple Torture, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Penis Size, Peter is a Little Shit, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Roughness, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Shameless Smut, Smut, Smutty, Spanking, Surprise Kissing, Teasing, Unhealthy Relationships, autassassinophilia, indirect rimming? lube felching? idk but someone is forced to eat lube used for butt stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 00:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12332136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryconfidentsandwichshapedfreedom/pseuds/veryconfidentsandwichshapedfreedom
Summary: Drew's been running Peter's errands for as long as Peter has had errands for him to run.





	Peter's Princess

**Author's Note:**

> this is too fucking long but whatevrr i dont carrrrrrreeeeeee
> 
> i passed up SO MANY OPPORTUNITIES to make a package pun in the description please be appreciative of that
> 
>  
> 
> note: if you replace peter with danny devito this plot goes from 0 to 100 on the creepy scale real fast

"Hey," Peter says. "Thanks. You know I get busy down here. Didn't feel like going to pick it up."

I steady the package clamped to my chest, leaned against my forearms. I'm not sure what it contains; it's a cardboard box about a foot wide and six inches tall, but it's awkward and heavy and makes my wrists and palms feel as though they're about to fall off, hit the ground, and disintegrate into nothingness.

"It was no problem." I feel a wide, shivering grin surge across my face. As horrible of a job as this was, and how much better suited it would have been for my much more athletic best friend, who can lift almost twice his own body weight and carries bits of metal that weigh much more than this around for his own enjoyment, I can't say no when Peter asks something of me. I couldn't say no even if he asked me to kill someone, or take the fall for something he did that could put me behind bars for the rest of my life. My conscience would be screeching at me, growing more and more desperate with every passing second, for me to take the moral high ground and deny his request, but then he'd smile at me or put his hand a little closer to mine and I'd melt from the inside out into a surging flood of obedience.

Sometimes, I feel as though that's all my conscience would object to, the most extreme and violent of acts. It's been browbeaten, chipped away bit by bit the more I've ignored it over the years. We've been friends since we were toddlers; it started with Peter asking me to take toys from other kids for him, only to morph into stealing from convenience stores so he wouldn't be the one getting caught, and, from there, it became beating up anyone who stood in his way, anyone who objected to his immoral actions. I felt them to be wrong, in the beginning, but now, to do any of those tasks would be little more than the new normal. And in comparison to those things, picking up Peter's package for him, being his personal delivery boy, is nothing, so I may as well treat it as such.

"Alright, well," he says, taking it from my hands. A feeling hits my shoulders that I can only describe as them screaming great sighs of relief at their burden being removed. "I'll be taking this where it belongs. Come help me put it together."

I don't bother to ask what it is. I'm not allowed to ask questions, not to Peter; it's a waste of his time. That was a rule I established myself. I always knew that  _I'm_ a waste of Peter's time whenever I'm not doing his bidding. He's perfect, and I'm nothing in comparison to anything in the most literal sense of the term. I've never known why he cares to let me follow him, or why he bothers to thank me, no matter how half-hearted. When you know someone the way I know Peter, when you feel for someone the way I feel for Peter, when you love someone the way I love Peter, there's not much you can do but sit and wonder what an idiot like you did right to earn the honored privilege of standing at their side. The least I can do to try to return what I owe him for his awe-inspiring presence, is to keep quiet and be good.

Peter turns on his heels and saunters away as if the package were no lighter than a sheet of paper, leaving me standing in the arch of the doorway, at the border between indoors and out. Out, escape. In, loyalty. As always, I choose in. 

Peter's father was loaded. Before he succumbed to his aggressive liver cancer from a lifetime of heavy drinking, he promised Peter a house, and on his nineteenth birthday, his most recent and the last his father was alive for, it was given. It's not huge or extravagant, especially not when it is considered that Peter deserves a million times more, a massive, sprawling mansion filled with servants and gold and everything he could ever even dream of wanting, surrounded by a wall on every side to keep out the hordes of adoring fans who worship him as much as I do, but it works, and it's much nicer than a dorm or a cheap apartment or his mother's basement, what most people his age have.

Peter's footsteps echo against the pristine wood floor; he has a maid that comes in twice a week to keep the place spotless. She must have just visited. Sometimes, I wish I was set for life like Peter, an only child with one parent dead and the other sick, about to inherit a fortune that would pay for anything I would ever need.

And then I remember I'm no Peter. Peter earned all that and more simply by being born as perfect as he is. I'm unworthy, and even if I were, all the money in the world would not be a fair trade for Peter's presence.

I know this place about as well as my own home. I practically live here. But still Peter takes control and leads me down the hallway, past the doors assembled in neat rows like legions of soldiers and flanked by various paintings in between, past the pale walls, over the single squeaky floorboard he'd talked about replacing but never yet had, through the area near his bedroom that had been rendered by months of his frequent presence nearby into reeking of the more musky notes of his cologne. 

Then, where the wood ends, we reach the stairs at the end of the hallway, tucked off to the side in what is almost a room of its own, and I pause as he starts down, one foot after the other on the fluffy beige carpet, to give him space. He probably couldn't see around the package, and following him any tighter than a few stairs behind certainly would not help things. If Peter tripped down the stairs and hurt himself, I would feel guilty, but at least, this way, I wouldn't have to be responsible.

This leads to his gym, his pride and joy. 

I kick off my shoes and toss them into the corner. He'll be angry if I go in wearing them, and the last thing I want to do right now is make him angry.

Then I head down after him. I can see the hollowness of it all, the tall, flat ceiling, lined with white metal support beams like thin bones holding the ground above in place, the gray concrete of the unpainted walls, the dark scuffs dotting the floors. He's obsessed with this place. Even if I hadn't known him at all, judging from the various machines lining the floors, each looking like it had been invented to torture a different body part rather than build one up, I would be able to assume he'd sunk a lot of money into this thing.

And, honestly, it shows. He'd always had significant muscle tone, bulging biceps, wide shoulders, defined abs when he took his shirt off, but in the past few months, he's gotten bigger, beefier; even the muscles in his  _hands_  are defined. I can't bring myself to look at him for more than a few seconds now without my throat drying out and sweat drooling down my palms.

Carefully he leads me around what looks to be little more than a useless giant contraption of metal bars and bolts hooked to a vinyl seat suspended on a beam, and bends down to lay the box on the floor in front of him. He stops and kneels in front of it.

I survey the room. A few feet away is the opposite wall, where the floor is lined with foam padding and two different punching bags, one on a sturdy plastic base and one suspended from the ceiling, reach like towers on an empty plain. For all the times I've been in Peter's house, I've been down here all of twice, once when I was helping him move in, and once when he wanted me to help him carry a new, awkward piece of equipment down the stairs and assemble it. And I've never gotten to watch him train.

I imagine him shirtless, a too-tight pair of gym shorts plastered to his thighs and the fat bulge of his cock evident in between, so obvious that it's clear that he's not wearing any underwear. The plates of muscle in his back heave, shifting and bending in perfect harmony with each other as he weaves in loopy circles around the punching bag like an angry, bristling tomcat, hopping in and out on his toes to slam his fist forward in a tight arc before leaping back to his original position. Moisture wells on his forehead, and trickles down his the lean, sleek curves of his broad chest, and I bite my lip. Oh, I would give  _anything_  to watch him train. I'd sell my soul to Satan, knowing it bound me to an eternity of endless torture in Hell, just to be able to see his gorgeous body in action one solitary time.

I catch myself before I go any further with my fantasy. He's just a friend. Nothing more.

That doesn't mean I don't want him.

"You see that punching bag over there? It's filled with sand. Part of the plug on the bottom broke off. It's not spilling yet, but I ordered another anyway," Peter says. I look back at him.

Tape screeches as it rips, like it can feel the pain of being shredded in two. The sound of cardboard rubbing cardboard scratches through my ears, and I'm unsure whether to find it irritating or pleasing in its delicateness. Paper crumples, and then Peter grabs something out of the box and heaves himself to his feet using only his legs to keep steady.

He turns to me and places a flat black plug about the circumference of a small dinner plate into my hand. It's definitely the reason the box was so heavy, and it reeks of old, stale diesel that I can smell even without moving the plug toward my face. But I don't drop it or toss it back because it's warm, as if it, in the second or two it laid in Peter's hand, managed to absorb some of his heat. And if it absorbed his heat in such a short time frame, his fingerprints probably linger, too. I wish I had a carton of baby powder; to be able to see them, every swirl, every curve, every bit of the pattern that makes up something so uniquely and completely  _him,_ would be nothing short of euphoric.

I glance up at Peter, who studies me with a neutral, bored expression that I cannot begin to decode, eyebrows slumped, mouth a straight flat line.

"The hole is on the bottom. I'll roll it up so you can plug it, since I'm sure that you're too weak to."

The joke was at my expense, and not all that funny to begin with, being that it was more of an insult cloaked beneath the cover of a sheer veil than an actual joke, but we both laugh, his genuine and rich and lined with notes of amusement at his own wit, and mine is just the same, but quiet and submissive as always. Peter is hilarious even when he isn't. 

"Okay," I say as soon as our laughter dies, and I turn around to face the punching bags again. The one he's commanded me to repair seems too heavy, too insurmountable; what if he drops it on me while I'm fixing it and breaks my fingers, or worse? But I trust him not to. He is strong. I am not. He is noble enough to use that strength to protect me, and that more than makes up for my weakness.

In a strange sort of way, I have a respect for the punching bag's solid base and the nicks dotted in its thick outer vinyl skin. Peter can be brutal, and he can be violent. But to survive his violence, after so many deliberate attempts to destroy, and so much anger, is commendable. It's not something I could see anyone human doing.

Peter steps past me. I stay in place; I want to be out of his way. He's going to be the strong one out of us, like always, and do the physically demanding task, and the least I can do to thank him for taking a workload that could have been mine is stand back and let him do his magic. I watch with eyes I imagine to be wide with interest, searching for every detail in how he does this so that I may learn and better serve him.

He sandwiches either side of it between his hands, big arms tight, muscles shifting under his forearms. Once he has the grip, he guides himself onto his knees and brings the entire punching bag down with him, in one smooth, solid motion.

"Go do it," he says, without looking back toward me. "It'll roll around if I don't hold it steady."

Now's the moment, and the only moment. If I do this right, I gain his praise for delivering his package and helping him out. If I do this wrong, I won't even get credit for the time I took out of my day to walk several miles to the post office, and then a few more here, and for having his item in one piece. If I want to stay the friend he depends on, I have no choice but to do this right.

I trot over to the opposite side, bend over, and grab for the old plug. There's a big crack in it, starting just along the side, that runs across about a quarter of the diameter. It's the kind that seems unstable, frail, like if I touch it, it'll just break more. I don't want to break Peter's stuff, but I don't want to hurt his feelings by not helping him, either, or make him believe I don't care about him, so I give the plug a twist. When it pops out into my open palm, I jam the new plug in, wrench it once in the hole, and now, I am done. Reassuring myself that I'd be good enough for Peter was harder than the actual job.

"Done." I flash him a view of the broken plug in my hand.

"Step back," he hisses. "I don't want to have to take you to the hospital with a broken foot."

There's an irritated snip in his voice, as if I interrupted him while he was thinking about something, and he's bitter about it. Guilt stings at my cheeks until they are hot enough to make my temples pound. I thought I did everything right, and I failed. I know what he likes more than I know what I like, yet, somehow, I still made him upset. What kind of a friend  _am_  I?

But I recall something my mother always used to tell me, after my father abandoned us, after the older brother I looked up to for most of my very early childhood years left for a concert and never came home, after she had every reason to lose hope in me, and before she actually did. It was a comfort through the times where I had no one but Peter, and it seemed as though the world was operating against the angel inside him that kept me safe, and I couldn't find the strength to do anything right.

 _You_   _can't change the past, but you can fix the future._

These circumstances aren't as dire, because I know Peter won't leave me for one infraction, not when I have so much that I'm willing to give, but the pain is just as real as it ever was. If I move on, and try better next time, it's better than if I just stop and beat myself up, hurting him again when I'm left shuddering beneath the afterquakes of my own self-deprecation.

So I smile and I take a pace backward, and I marvel at his might, like he'd want me to, as he rises to his feet and heaves the punching bag back upright as if it weighs no more than a fallen folding chair. I hope he's proud of my self-control, not to fall over and cry for what I've done, or rather, not done correctly. To simply ignore my own faults and carry on worshipping him, despite all the pain he goes through because I'm not perfect, not like him, takes a vigor I've never known.

He stands still for a moment, staring off into nothingness; I assume he's regaining his bearings, deciding what to do next, because, underneath, I can see his mind turning, weighing every possible consequence. I follow with silence, as is standard, breathing only to wait for his next command. 

When his gaze meets mine, I recognize the glow in his bright eyes instantaneously. It's the one he gets right before he tells me what I should do for him, right before he gives me the orders I know I am obligated to follow to keep him at my side. I want this so bad. I want to see him happy.

"Give it a few shots for me," Peter chirps, a smug smirk spreading across his face.

What's he want that for? But I can't say anything to deny it. It's so simple. I punch, I hit, he's pleased, and I get my hair rumpled beneath his hand or his fingertips brushed over my wrist for a time that creeps on the border of too long to be platonic. There's nothing I could bring myself to do that isn't what he's suggested, now that he's opened the gate to praise with such low requirements of me. 

I eye the punching bag like it's planning to attack me first, like if I'm not careful, it'll jump at me when I have my back turned and maul a gash into my neck. I will get close, and I will strike, and I will win his approval. I will. He's all I've got.

I catch him glaring, face empty of emotion, cold with the hard edge of judgement. He's watching. I need to be so good at this that I rival him, so he'll like me, and we'll stay friends, and I'll never have to end up alone, abandoned, tossed out like the garbage I am.

Every step around to the front, ahead of where he's standing, feels as though I'm stepping on the still-hot embers of a dying fire, scorching my heels an angry red and causing fat white blisters, swollen into bubbles with fluid, to erupt along my flesh. Dread prowls over my arms, leaving them trembling at my sides no matter how hard I try to steady them. 

All I ask of myself is that I can make one good impact, that one strike I throw will surprise him, and make him view me differently, maybe even  _admire_  me, something I never thought possible. But with every passing second, the already minuscule chance of that happening only shrinks, shrinks, shrinks away, bit by bit, and I can feel the torture of its fading existence leaving me behind with no hope, and nothing for me to believe in but the knowledge he's still here, for the time being.

I give myself the liberty of one last breath, in, out, a breath that seems to clear out every bit of hesitation and siphon in undiluted determination to fill the emptied space. All I see is black vinyl and all I feel is the pressure of my balled fist on the tendons in my wrist. Are my legs angled right? I settle my weight on one foot and slide that foot behind me. Maybe that's how I'm supposed to do it. I glance back at Peter through the corner of my eye, seeking guidance, something he should be familiar with giving to me by now, but he's stone-faced, silent, and offers no help.

There's nothing I can do but try.

I jerk my elbow forward, sending my fist flying into the surface ahead; it thumps, low, dull. There's no explosion of motion as the punching bag soars back, and no great slamming collision, not like when he does it, or when others do, and not at all like the picture in my mind. But he hasn't stopped me yet, so I should try again, and try until he labels me hopeless.

I give another strike, with the same hand; I place my forearm up to guard my face from an imaginary attacker in an attempt to impress Peter that I know is misguided. When my second attempt yields the same result, I switch arms, and punch again, trying so hard, battling myself and my weak body and my acute inexperience, to get only one good hit, one hit good enough to win his attention. But I can't.

I give up after too many punches, too many to count, all rushed out in the space of seconds that dragged out for centuries. I should have been able to get it right on the first try. But I couldn't. I am truly pathetic.

I slide my feet back together, straighten my shoulders, and I sigh, and despite it being so much, so many things I've done to relax myself, I only feel more agitated. There's nothing left to do but wait for my consequences.

Something closes around my shoulder, gripping at the bulge of my bone; it's warm, firm, tight. A hand.  
  
"You're really bad at this, you know."  
  
_Peter's_  hand.

My heart clenches in my chest, both aching with agonized, weighted disappointment and lurching in a rush of flame and lava and sloshing, bubbling heat that leaks from my sternum to fill the pit of my belly. Being in physical contact with Peter, and the knowledge that he touched me, willingly, of his own accord, that when he could do anything else, he chose to put his hand on me, is enough to leave the world stumbling on its axis. For a trembling moment, time stutters, frozen in a cycle of repeating itself over and over again.  
  
The elated shock is enough to fend off the horror birthed from failing Peter. He wanted me to be strong like him, and I was not strong, but as weak as I have always been, maybe even  _weaker_  than normal. I could have punched harder, even if the only thing keeping my fists in clear, quick strikes was the thought of glimmering leaf-green eyes and pale skin unmarked by flaw or blemish, or the sound of his voice, high with pride, ringing imaginary praises into my mind so real that they seem to wisp through my ears and tickle my skin until every little hair inside is left perked to attention.  
  
But he likes me, despite my failure to please him; his words were free of malice, an amiable tone he rarely puts forward. Perhaps he found amusement in just how hard I managed to fail. Maybe this was all a set-up, and he  _knew_ ,  _fr_ _om the very beginning_ , that I couldn't throw a punch if everyone I'd ever known or loved depended on it. Maybe he brought me here just to entertain himself.  
  
Most people would be seething with anger at even the distant possibility of that, of being tricked by the person they've fallen in intense, unrelenting love with, the person they adore unconditionally, through everything they've ever been through, through every misdeed and crime, through every minute and every hour and every day for years of their lives, taking their own time and effort to humiliate them and batter their emotions like a wife left ragged by her abuse. But not me. Whatever Peter inflicts on me, I deserve it. I'm nothing more than his plaything. I offer no positive qualities outside of that.

"Yeah," I say. "It doesn't come to me like it does to you."

That's an understatement. Peter is a god, a god against a bag, a god with every punch. He's a shimmering gold statue of a muscular horse bounding headlong into battle, hooves raised, eyes forever caught in a perpetual state of frenzy, with a legendary general brandishing a musket toward the sky riding on its back. And every day, I feel more and more like a hungry beggar that sleeps in its shadow. But the beauty in the daylight, when bright rays of sunshine from the streaked pink dawn make the metal glisten, when the dewdrops gathered along the base become thousands of little stars, reflecting back pictures of the sky, is more than enough to make up for it all, the loathing, the anger, the desperation, the longing.

"There's nothing really to it," Peter says; his tone is light, a chirp, almost, and I wonder if I were somehow right about him being entertained by my inexperience. "You put your weight into it."

His opposite palm, the one not tucked around my shoulder, cups the sleek curve of my bicep. Then it slides down to meet my clamped fist, fingertips to knuckles, teasing, slow and gentle as if he were trying to do it without letting me notice. Once Peter feels the contact, signaled by a half-smile caught through the corner of my eye, shot towards me, or maybe towards someone else, someone who isn't here, he tightens his grip on my shoulder. 

Then Peter pulls the arm secured over mine backward, bringing my own arm into a bend alongside it. The world freezes. We share a heart, a mind, a limb. For a stuttering, stammering moment, our blood courses through shared veins, our thoughts spread through shared minds, our bodies move as one, a singular being.

Behind me, Peter lightens. He shifts his weight, and then, before my brain catches up to see him punching, my muscles strain, shards of pain scattering under the skin from my shoulder to my knuckles as he drives our arms into the target with a thudding impact that seems to ring out forever, much, much louder than any of the ones I made alone.

" _That's_  how you punch."

Now that he's done the only thing he came over here to do, divide his actions between humiliation, shame, and constructive assistance, a sign of appreciation, he will back away, and not look my way again for at least the next month, communicating to me with nods and basic commands, as if I were his dog, and not someone who's fallen in love with him a thousand times over. Not that I mind. He owes me nothing for simply doing what I should be.

But he doesn't move. I feel nothing but the echoes of the impact ringing through my hand, into my wrist, and his warm, protective presence over me.

I wish I could be half as strong as him. I wish I was anywhere near as smart, or confident, or  _anything_  he is, because then, I would be nearly perfect, and much more worthy than I am now of his attention. I wish I knew what I was doing. But I don't. I'm useless. The only thing I'm meant to do is serve him, the most superior being in the universe, and sometimes, I can't even do that right, because I am a failure and even my purpose is wrong, a shameless fluke of the universe. He deserves so much better than me, slow and stupid and weak, always a step behind, even when life shortens the trail I'm running.  
  
So why does he want to use his energy,  _waste_  it, helping me improve? When he is worth more than anyone else, when his minute is worth anyone else's year, when his walk is worth anyone else's sprint, when his whisper is worth anyone else's shout, why is he here, his hand on my shoulder, his solid abdomen pressed to my back tight enough that not even the smallest amount of air seems to be caught between us, his voice carrying a stern, guiding encouragement he's never displayed before?  
  
But only fools question a good thing; I fear I'll find myself so caught up in the  _why_  that I forget the  _what_ , and this culmination of everything I have ever wanted, every desire, both constant and fleeting, the event my every breath and heartbeat has led up to, will be forgotten in an abyss of uncertainty and nagging, tugging confusion.

I've sworn never to question Peter, and I recognize the consequences it may bring, but I can't stop myself.

"You didn't have to help me," I say, trying my hardest not to sound whiny but failing anyway when the high, stammering tones of gratitude and surprise seep in against my will. Though I know he can't see it, not from this position, I smile, involuntary, only realizing it's there as I feel it blossom.

That's the nicest thing he's ever done for me.

Peter's hand is tight over mine, his fingers having slid over to nestle in the valleys between the bumps of my knuckles. My stomach flips in my gut. His palm is soft, and warm, and his fingers fit perfectly where he's positioned them, and the feeling of him surrounding my flesh with a cage made of his own is a weight too much for me to bear. I love this. I can't help it. When we are together, it is like he becomes a second body, controlled as easily by my mind as my own. We become a single creature, living, breathing,  _existing_  together, and that is enough.

Peter snickers. "I didn't  _have_  to, but I did anyway. It was painful to watch, and trust me, you wouldn't have been able to get anything done the way you were going even if I gave you six hours to toss a good punch."

"Yeah. But thanks for showing me how, Peter. That was really nice of you."

His grip on my hand loosens; something shifts in my chest, sinking down to fill my gut with a cold, aching slurry of disappointment and grief. I'd felt so right, with him there. I'd felt  _whole_ , like a part of me that had been missing my entire life had finally been returned to its rightful place. I'd felt strong and brave and inspired, motivated, like I could do anything, and now, that feeling is absent, and I am broken.

I am reflecting on how thankful I am that his other hand is still gripping my shoulder when he kisses me on the cheek.

My insides melt; my whole body stops, locked in a stasis, frozen and boiling, still and moving, all at the same time. The world cuts to a blinding white light that blazes waves of electricity down my limbs, through my mouth, into my chest, where the sparks meet and explode into a scorching flame. 

It's like Peter knew. It's like he knew all along. It's like he knew how much this would affect me, and he threw it in right after a jabbing tease like he only wanted to cause me emotional distress, to see me get flustered and crawl up behind him on my belly like a pathetic slave and beg him for the love I thought he had for me.

But somehow, perhaps only through the power of wishing, of yearning, of pure need for the truth to match my desires, I realize he is not faking anything, or I at least delude myself into believing it. He might have brought me here with an ulterior motive, a goal to chase. Maybe he thinks about me as much as I think about him. Maybe this is all a set-up, too, just as I thought him suggesting I test the punching bag was, but instead of the end goal being to humiliate me and make me feel useless, the end goal is getting me alone and close so he can give in to his desires.

Whatever his reasoning is, as long as Peter will stay with me, like this, and kiss me, and touch me, and act toward me in a way he never has before, a way that until now, I could only ever find in my dreams and waking fantasies, I will be happy, and I will cooperate with anything he wants from me.

"Peter," I murmur, unsure of what else to say. On my tongue, his name is soft and sharp at the same time, and it fires a pang of longing through my throat. After so much, after so long, I am here, he is here, and everything we are is what I once deemed as impossible.

Peter sighs deeply, like someone hit him in the abdomen so hard that it compressed his lungs, releasing the air inside. 

"Come on," he whispers, low, slow. His voice is a guide for the guideless, a beacon of light in the dark and confusing realm our lives persist and sustain existence within. "This game was never fun. I'm sure you want to win by now."

Despite it being abstract and vague, a borderline non sequitur, I know instantly what he's referring to.

A game is an interesting way to describe this.

My throat slinks down into my belly. Is this it? Is this the moment I've been waiting for since the first words he spoke to me when we were children? Is this what I've yearned for with such an intensity that it spurred me to cry myself to sleep almost every night from puberty onward? Is this what I've spent countless hours, building into days, maybe even full weeks, fantasizing about? Is this going to be what I think it is?

Maybe I'm just desperate, bound to be left forever terrorized by my own limitless hope. Probably. Peter's too good for me. It was a kiss. That is already a tremendous act, more than I ever could have brought myself to beg for, and much, much more than what he owes me.

He owes me nothing, but he gave me something. He could give me more. He  _hinted_  at giving me more. This could be it.

No, this  _is_  it. He's going to fuck me. He wants me.

I've known Peter for virtually my entire life, and if there's anything I can say about him, besides the obvious, it's that he's unpredictable. Whenever I think that I have him memorized, whenever I think that I can read him like an open book, he shifts and changes, forever dynamic. It makes sense, though it is not how I imagined it, that there would be no confession of attraction, no courtship, and no great declaration of love before we went all the way. He's never been a fan of drawing things out, always seeking the fastest and easiest method to fulfill his desires, no matter who or what it could damage.

Not that I mind any of that. This is all I ever could have dreamed of.

He takes me and pulls me around to face him. I feel safe, with his hands on my body, like he'll protect me from the inevitable danger that I've created in my own head. If he's doing  _this_  for me, he'd save me from anything. He'd just pick me up and drape me across his shoulders and leave like he's carrying an endangered princess out of a smouldering castle.

Then the thought occurs to me.

He thinks of me as  _his_  princess. I'm naïve and quiet and submissive to any and every command I am given. I'm weaker than him, and smaller. It makes too much sense. It makes more sense than anything, 

He kisses me again, and this time, it's on the lips, mouth open, hungry and mauling at mine as he brings into it the control he always has over me. Heat blooms inside him, a fire, and with it comes the stirring, pushing urge to find it and reach it and touch it. I guide my tongue along the rim of his lips, like I'm licking something off of him, and then I press deeper, deeper in, until my tongue and his meet, him and I,  _us_ , together, and we wrestle, and I submit, but I taste his heat and it is heavenly, everything I ever expected to feel and more.

There is an urgent need, a craving, that crawls through me, created by his fervent squeaks, and the way we are tangled up, two souls, two people, two different lives, intertwined like we had never been more than one. I realize now, at this second in what is now a plethora of seconds, because I need no second other than this one, that I will never have enough of Peter Hayes.

And before I fully get into it, before I know what is happening to my body, and to his, before it can situate itself in my mind, it is over. Peter pulls away first, chest heaving, face flushed, his form struggling for a breath, any breath.

In a situation where things are anything but normal, we retain some degree of normalcy; as always, Peter is the first to pop the tension left heavy in the air around us and speak.

"You are a terrible kisser," he purrs. 

"I know."

The beauty of that kiss drained away any strength I had dedicated to telling him that it was my first.

Following the exchange is a torrent of laughter from us both that implies that, while his statement was not completely in jest, he still likes me, and he is doing nothing more than finding amusement in my flaws for the both of us to share.

Fidgeting hands find their way to the collar of my shirt.

He wants to fuck me.

He wants my sex.

The realization is dull, at first, like it came in a dream and is so disjointed and unreal that I can't find the brainpower in my exhausted mind to comprehend anything but sleep. Peter wants me. After so long, so many years of being terrified to tell him how I felt, of wallowing in the pools of my own shame at my attraction to him, of trying to disguise my love for him as mere platonic admiration, he wants me. It's too much for my mind to handle all at once.

Cool air pools around my abdomen, right at the level of my navel; Peter's pulling my shirt up, leaving me open and exposed and prepared to receive his every rightful criticism of my pale, flaccid body.

He's seen me naked before. I've seen him naked. We've been best friends since we were babies, practically, and we grew up sharing beds during sleepovers, and changing in the same locker rooms, and even taking the occasional shower together. But at those times we were naked in innocence, and he was not greedily lapping up every bit and part of me with his eyes for his own sexual satisfaction. He probably barely noticed me. He wasn't focusing on me, but on whatever we were doing together.

Now it's different, and I feel shame for daring to exist this close to him.

I have stretch marks, across my back, lining my shoulders, like the gnarled hands of puberty pressed down on either side of my skin and pulled outward until my skin stretched away like melting cheese, leaving canyons carved into me. And though I shot from too short to too average in the span of one summer, my manhood never seemed to have caught up; even erect, it's a dwarf compared to what I remember from various accidental glimpses as Peter's hulking monster of a dick. That does not mention my gangly wrists and my pudgy midsection and the rounded hump between my shoulder blades, prominent through clothes and without, from slouching for my entire life. 

Peter is too good for me. Maybe he'll take one look at me and walk away, unable to do anything else without feeling nauseated.

Probably.

When the shirt comes off, and is balled up and tossed by him, falling in a heaping puddle of fabric halfway across the room, I expect to see him angry, or at least watch a flicker of disappointment flash through the blackness of his pupils. My body is probably average; I'm a normal weight and I have no noticeable scars or any deformities. But average is never good enough for Peter. Peter should have only the best.

And now, we must face the fact that, though I love him more than I love anyone else, more than anyone else loves him, I am  _not_  the best, not by far. He could sit on a street corner for a few hours at night and find at least two prostitutes that would probably turn him on more than I do. The only thing I have to offer is my loyalty and my adoration for everything he does. That is it. I have no worth in anything else.

I wait for him to turn away, or slap me, or call me gross and tell me that he'd never want to fuck me. 

It doesn't happen.

Maybe I'm his type.

Instead, Peter draws me close to his chest and slamming his lips down hard on top of my mouth. He stretches his own mouth open, in an attempt to pry open mine through contact; I follow because the sensation of his guidance is all I ever want to know. 

He forces his tongue onto mine, over top, in a wave; the warmth that builds, strengthening with every motion as he fucks it in and out of my mouth, one burst, two bursts, three, like he's demonstrating what he's about to do to me, is heavenly; the feeling I'm basking in something beautiful, something so, so right, is overwhelming. Movement after movement is raw and needy and takes more from me than it ought to, a calculated decision.

Nothing different than what I've come to expect.

We are coiled within each other, heartbeats pounding, resonating through our chests until I can hear his and I'm sure he can hear mine too. I'm left drowning inside him, lost in a universe otherworldly in its allure. I could do this forever.

Something creeps along my thigh, big and solid over the wrinkled denim of my jeans. A twinge, airy, hot, surges in a certain spot between my legs. I was so enamored by Peter that I didn't notice how hard he's gotten me, with his kisses and his hands all over my body and his distant promise of having rough, torrid sex with me right where we stand.

Slowly, toying, his fingers slip up my leg, drawing closer and closer to undoing the button that will leave one less barrier between Peter and I. He bullies me for what I want, letting his fingertips brush my stiffened dick through my jeans, but not enough to satisfy the itch burning inside my soul, letting his fingertips brush the button, but not enough to undo it, betraying my trust over and over again only to gain amusement from the torment charring itself over and over again deep in my stomach.

Finally, the held breath we share becomes inadequate, and Peter pulls away again; I don't dare try to determine what we do and when, always waiting for his wisdom. That is when the button is undone, and he pinches a belt loop on either side to wiggle the cruel pair of jeans down to my ankles, where they can no longer obstruct him with their wretchedness. I kick them off, not bothering to check where they skidded to. If I trip over them and break my stupid neck against the floor, at least I will die at the absolute happiest moment in a life that has been nothing but lust and mental turmoil. 

Now, there is one thing keeping my body from belonging to my god and my god alone. That is quickly rectified when he practically rips off my boxers, throwing them down my legs where they ooze into a mottled black pile of satin.

I bend to pick them up, leaning toward the floor; here, the end of my nose brushes against his groin as I grab. Even in an area of my body not meant for sensing my surroundings, at least not through touch, I can tell Peter's just as hung as I knew he was.

I wish he were naked, so I could tuck my nose right underneath his massive cock and sniff his sweaty sack before I slam the entire thing in my mouth and suck him dry, until my lungs burn from constant choking and my gag reflex no longer functions as it should and all I can taste is salt and cum and him.

But he's clothed, still, so that fantasy will have to go to the wayside. I have a job to do, and that job is giving Peter the best climax he's ever had, a token of my appreciation for the intersection of his life and mine.

I come back up, and there I stand in front of him. My whole life I have spent fantasizing about Peter and I together in the future, or reminiscing about things we did together in the past. If I wasn't imagining our wedding, imagining feeling the clamminess in my palms as I read my vows, envisioning the way he'd kiss me tender and soft, the necessary roughness and hardness already in the strength of what we felt for each other, and biting my lip at the thought of us making love in the hotel room that night, him moaning into the pillow as I pressed my stiff, throbbing dick into his warm hole, ready to confirm my oath of commitment to him, if none of that, then I was remembering the elementary school camping trip where he let me climb into his sleeping bag when I lied and told him I was scared of the dark, and he was unafraid of what the other boys in the tent might have thought if they woke up and saw who was, in retrospect, the school bully, snuggled chest-to-chest with his male best friend. I'd thought he was so brave, then, and I'd been thankful for his arms around me, and the feel of his soft, shiny hair against my fingertips as I played with it; I never managed to sleep that night, scared that if I shut my eyes for even a second, he would disappear and I wouldn't see him again. I lived in my favorite dreams and in my memories. But right now, I cannot think of leaving the present when it finally has something to give me other than angst and dread and pain. I am grounded for the first time in years, and I owe all of it to him.

There is a silence, for a very brief time, one that does not beg for something to fill it, but, rather, is content with its own emptiness. Peter's eyes scorch holes through my spirit as he scans me up and down, with a smirk on his face that says he is scrutinizing every flaw. I wait, something inside me pulled and pulled until it can take no more pressure, and now, it is simply waiting for the right moment to snap. 

When he moves again, I expect to hear him call me fat, or pathetic, or a pity fuck, all things characteristic of him to say. But he only wets his lips, and my knees go weak, wobbling under my own weight, and under the weight of those straight white teeth, that tousled, gleaming dark hair, the sparkle in those eyes. He steps back, reaches for the hem of his shirt, and it has to be—

He takes it off, pulls it over his head to reveal everything above his groin. 

If now, my ancestors were to appear in front of me to take me to the afterlife, they wouldn't even need to tell me I died; I would assume my heart exploded right there on the spot as soon as I saw the first bit of Peter's skin. 

I'm staring at God.

Muscles bulge from him from places I didn't even realize  _had_ muscles that could be so prominent; his neck is brawny and solid, and his traps are so thick that it seems a much scrawnier man is trapped inside Peter with only his head and shoulders jutting out. His ribs protrude above his flanks, but not in an emaciated way; they're visible because he's lean and toned, not because he's too thin.

Either Peter's unlucky and can't grow chest hair, or he shaves it all off, but whatever he does, his beefy chest, with pecs that seem to have been shaped by a cookie-cutter, has everything it needs anyway. His midsection is trim, leaving his hipbones to jut out beneath his abs in a sleek, deep shape that is hypnotizing and lures my eyes to the border of his groin like arrows curving down to the main attraction.

Peter slides his thumbs into the empty space between his waistband and his middle to remove his pants. And the urge to beg him to stop, so I can admire his Herculean figure, his stunning beauty, tugs me in every direction all at once before I remember what's beneath, what's hiding.

His member.

He pulls everything down at once, steps out and pushes it all away with his ankle, and there, there it is. 

I've seen Peter naked, and I've seen Peter hard, but for years and years I have lusted over seeing both at the same time, something that had never happened until this very moment. I've masturbated in shame to my own idealized version of Peter's cock more times than I can count. I was crazed over it, dreamed of nothing but getting to touch it and suck it and sink down on it to be destroyed by it, and yet...

It's so much bigger than I thought it would be when he got stiff; I log by sight about nine inches on it, maybe a touch more, and I think it'd dwarf my forearm in thickness, though I'm not going to check. I hunt in vain to find one single fault on it. I can't find a mole, or a vein that is disturbingly misshapen, or an ingrown hair at the base. I can't find anything wrong. There is nothing. This is the perfect dick. This is everything I wanted from him and more, a thousand times better than any fantasy could have even hoped to have been. So soon, I will be riding that. He'll be pushing it inside me, and I'll be screaming and crying for mercy, but even if he did stop, I'd screech for him to shove it back in and fuck me no matter what I tell him.

He's so beautiful, he seems to have been crafted, bit by bit, bone by bone, muscle by muscle, by the ebbing and flowing of the tides of flawlessness itself. 

I just wonder what I did right to earn this.

My entire life has been made up of a carefully regulated system of tasks and rewards. If I did something for Peter, he'd owe me something, and ensure me another day as his favorite companion in return. Then we would be balanced out, and I would need to do something else to gain his favor as soon as the sun rose again. I'd never get anything lavish for doing a mundane deed, and I'd rarely get anything mundane for doing something dangerous or labor-intensive. But I had to work for whatever I wanted, and now, Peter's presenting himself to me like a gift for doing almost nothing, and I'm not sure what to think. Peter's attention, positive or negative, is worth so much suffering. I'd go on a shooting rampage in a daycare if it meant Peter would spit on me. I'd paint a brick wall by throwing puppies at it if it meant Peter would tell me he hated me and he planned to come to my funeral just to drink all the coffee. I'd slaughter every person on goddamn Earth just to have Peter slit my throat and stomp on my writhing corpse as I die. I idolize him so much for being there for me when no one else was, being a constant in a life where I always felt alone. I love him more than anything else. He's too good, too kind, too smart, too anything, to be like this with someone like me.

Is he thinking the same thing?

When Peter speaks again, his voice is hushed, but hearing it is like finding a lake after traversing a moistureless desert for a week. I don't care what he'll say as long as he's the one who says it.

"Drew?"

The first thing he says and it could be the precursor to anything. I don't know what to feel.

"Yeah?" Even one word from my mouth sounds pathetic when his word is there to precede it.

He takes a step toward me, closing the distance he left when he started to undress. He flashes a quick smirk.

"After this, you'll be saying my name like it's the only word you know."

Holy shit.

I start to free the scream biting at the back of my throat, the scream of pure joy to heaven above for blessing me with him, but before I can make more than a hoarse squawk, he's got himself pressed against me and his arms around me tight and his teeth nibbling on my lower lip. Nothing exists but him and me. Everything is an illusion meant to bring us closer. I have never felt true happiness and I have never felt true pain, because this is all I am ever going to feel that is real, and this is the only thing I was made to feel.

I dip my hands down to run my palms along the small of his back, lungs breathing the smoothness of his skin and heart pumping the firmness of his body. Peter tastes like something I have no name for, and cannot even begin to describe, but I can't get enough of it, and I keep pressing my tongue in to explore the inside of his cheek in hopes of getting a little more.

He either grows annoyed with this or is too dominated by his own lust to care that I'm trying to do something, but after a few slow trips between his mouth and my own, he yanks his head down to deliver an array of kisses along my neck, starting at my jaw and dotting one after another along my throat. I can't take the way he's leaning into me, or the little noises he's making, or his warmth and how safe and loved I feel in its confines; I pierce the air with a moan, to let him know he's doing a very good job.

I'm not sure how much longer I can last pressed up this close to him. I'm getting so hot; my belly's tightened, and a light, twitching feeling is winding its way down my shaft. I'll want him to touch me soon. I'll  _need_ him to touch me.

He works his way up along my jawline, never leaving a spot bare without the caress of his soft, sweet lips. And then he finds my ear, introduces the lobe to blunt tips of teeth, and he nibbles, and suckles, and I fall apart, melting into a bubbling slurry of warmth and trust and everything he is.

Finally Peter pulls away, and I whimper, the sound trembling and shaking as much as my clammy fingers are. I'm still cuddled against him, still holding him, and I realize I could do this for the rest of time, though it was never really something secret or simply unearthed. 

It occurs to me for yet another time, as it has done an innumerable amount since I was very young, that I'm hopelessly in love with him, and that belief only becomes stronger and stronger as we stand drunk on the rhythm of each other's breathing, on the feel of hands against our torsos and on the taste of each other still lingering in our tired mouths.

Then Peter's hands slide off me. My own slump back to my sides in response.

"Give me a minute," he says. He leans in to kiss my forehead like he's tucking me into bed, and in a way, he is, because right now, like a reluctant child, I would prefer to stay up all night, every night, if it means I can have just a few more seconds with him. 

But he turns away, and I am terrified as I turn, too, in an attempt to see him go.

I'm  _more_  than terrified. My mind is an intersection, and anxiety, sorrow, longing, and self-loathing have just had a four-way crash. What's he going for? We were having so much fun! Am I not good enough? Did he do this just so he could humiliate me by spreading the story of me making out with him, enjoying it, and wanting more?

No, he'd never do that. He hurts others. He would never hurt me. That would be an act of self-sabotage.

Not that I'd ever leave his side, even if he tried to kill me.

He paces across the room, to the furthest wall; I study my shoes. Whatever it is he's doing, he probably doesn't need me to watch.

"Found it."

I glance up. He's standing there, smile curved across his perfectly pink lips, his shimmering eyes focused entirely on me, the center of his attention the same way he's the full focus of mine. At this moment, the idea of anyone else touching him, even platonically, even as little as an accidental brush of their hand over his, is enough to ignite a white-hot thorn and drive it forward until it pierces every bit of my soul.

In his hand is a cylindrical white bottle, which he drops on the floor beside him. It thumps. I'm not sure what's inside, but I have at least one good guess.

His smile falters for a second, his eyes avoiding mine, and again, I wonder if I have done something wrong.

"I don't have a condom," he says.

"It's okay," I whisper, my voice a low, sweeping breath that I pray will comfort him. "Go ahead. I saved myself for you."

"You're a virgin?" Peter squeaks out in response, a disjointed gasp that is uncharacteristic of someone so confident, so sure of himself. His eyes are round pools of surprise that fill up too much space on his pale, angular face. It seems almost exaggerated, cartoony, as if he  _knew_ , and he is now left feigning shock at the idea that his best friend, always overzealous in pleasing him, in following him, always the first to willingly suffer under the weight of whatever had hurt him if it meant he was released from the palm of a clenched fist of terror and pain, hadn't found himself in bed with anyone after nearly two full decades on the planet to try. 

I'd been approached, before. I've never been a beauty, not like Peter, but every once in a great while, a girl who liked short, stocky, quiet boys with fluffy flame-orange hair and chubby cheeks mottled with freckles would appear in my life, and I would be prepositioned, sometimes subtly, through the twirling of hair around a finger or lingering smiles or eye contact that broke a moment after it should have.

I always caught it, every time, right away; I'd memorized every hint that could be read as flirtatiousness because I'd told myself I needed to know what to watch for when I talked to Peter, in case he was interested in me, and finally decided to toy with me. But I never let it show, pretending to be dense to hide that I didn't feel anything for anyone but Peter. I could have taken a girl out, and smiled, and laughed, and kissed her, but never would I once have truly meant it, and once we got into bed, I'd do nothing but disappoint her when her body and my fantasies weren't enough to keep me hard, or when I managed to finally get it in and found myself moaning Peter's name in the heat of the moment, letting slip that I was not trembling with thoughts of her, but thoughts of Peter gasping as I pumped my cock into him.

Since I never felt the need to do anything to protect myself from suspicions about my sexuality, assuming people would chalk it up to my introverted behavior or general unappeal, Peter is going to be the one to deflower me, and, unless I'm forced, he will be the only one who will ever get to touch me like this, because now that I have him, I could not bring myself to be with anyone but.

"Why would I want anyone else?"

"Good boy."

Peter's high voice is calm, steady, stern; the remark was praise for my loyalty, my obedience, and he spoke like that to maintain his control over me. Not that he has to. I'll submit to him no matter how he treats me, no matter if he falls into a plague of conflicting emotions every time he sees me sacrifice my own free will to be his possession, to be his puppet that he can manipulate in any situation he sees fit, and takes it out on me.

My heart flutters. He's happy, because of me. I've satisfied him with my answer. I've pleased him!

"Now," Peter says, sliding a hand down my shoulders, my waist, to meet the curve of my hipbone. His other is absent from my body. Maybe he's jerking himself off. I don't dare glance down, or so much as try to catch a flash of motion out of the corner of my eye. To tear my gaze away when he's given me permission to make eye contact would be an act of blatant disrespect and a wholehearted betrayal. "Let's see what we've got here."

From my hip his palm dances, skimming my navel, brushing my thigh...

Finding my engorged, pulsating cock.

If I ever had the motivation and the courage to say something, both were buried alive beneath a mountain of lust. I want Peter so bad. I've always wanted him. But so far, this has felt like nothing but a wet dream, and now that he's touching me, and I can feel it, and I want him to stroke me like he owns me, I finally know everything is real. 

His palm is tight and still slick with sweat, so when he starts to toss his wrist back and forth, tugging my shaft through the warm confines of his hand, it feels like I'm pounding a tight, hungry tunnel, and for a moment, my breath is caught in a purgatory, unable to move in or out of my body. How does he, with no insight into my mind, jerk me off better than I can myself? Has he, over years of ordering me around, memorized how I function and my preferences and where my nerve endings stop, down to the very last molecule?

He pumps me in, out, in, out, in, out, gentle strokes from base to tip; he leans in to kiss me, one hand on my shoulder, the other rubbing me off. Then he draws away, before he can touch me, before my lips can be given contact with the heaven that is his own. Below, his hand quits moving, and slips back to his side, away from my erection.

He knows how to get me worked up. He knows how to play with me. And, most of all, he knows how to tease me.

Oh, Lord, he's more perfect than I could ever have imagined. Maybe perfection is too light, too imprecise of a word. It isn't good enough for Peter. Perfection was never good enough. He is so much more than what it can say. He's my king, my savior, and I am his princess, and now, I finally can have him all to myself.

Peter leans into my ear, and I ready myself to hear something from him, whether it be an order or a compliment.

"Bend over," he whispers. 

Is he going to fuck me, right here, right now? Is he just going to make me angle my hips so he can lower me down onto his cock, finish, and go? That seems like so little. Doesn't he want me to make  _him_  feel good? He's been the only one administering foreplay; I haven't yet had my chance to prove to him how much he means to me. I haven't been allowed to prove how much I love him, and that isn't going to help anything, not right now. 

But I don't dare disobey on purpose, not when I haven't been succeeding on his past command through circumstances out of my control. If I can do as I'm told now, it will provide me with a defense if I can't later on. He might cut me the slack I never earned.

I give him one final touch, my hand against his; the skin on his thumb is smooth, and soft, and free of blemish or flaw of any kind, no matter how small. I'd give up any and all things to sit here forever, blind to the world, living with the feel of his hands as my religion, my creed, my faith, the beginning and end of everything I could ever know or think. But his demands of me are worth more than anything I could ever want.

Against his chest, I turn around, until I feel him, solid and tall against my back. Then I bend at the hips, so he can have the only part of me with any considerable value, the only thing anyone will ever want me for that is not my undying, unwavering devotion, the devotion that is his possession.

I hear his breaths grow heavier, more labored, behind me; I press my palms to my thighs just a little tighter, in a failed attempt to comfort myself against the anxiety spurred by the thought of what's to come, and the consequences that will unfold not long after. What if we're not the same afterward? 

I want it too much to care.

I feel him brush against me, and there's a loud pop I can't identify the source of before he brushes against me again, going the opposite direction. He mumbles something, something with a rough inflection and a sharp ending that splits through his mouth and comes out sounding almost painful and completely, entirely indecipherable. 

I suck the edge of my upper lip into my mouth, shift it back and forth, inside and out, in a weird sort of coping mechanism that does nothing to calm the heartbeat that thunders within me, echoing through my torso and into my idle ears. I don't know what he plans to do with me except that it involves putting something inside me, and the only occurrence that could have told me what he's planning was useless. I tighten every muscle in my body all at once in preparation, wanting to be ready for whatever he's about to throw at me.

I hear the bottle from earlier creaking out a high, squeaky groan; Peter trails it with a satisfied grunt. Something falls against the floor, and I feel something else brush up against the hyper-sensitive wrinkles surrounding my opening, slow, light enough that, if I did not know what he's doing already, I would think that it was a mistake. 

And then he presses a finger into my hole, parting it open. It gives, and there he is, sliding deep, deep into my ravenous tunnel, building pressure within my insides.

"Relax, sweetheart," Peter croons. "You'll like it if you don't tense up."

Peter's voice reassures me to do what I—

Did Peter Hayes just  _reassure_  me? Did he just detect that I seemed nervous, connect that with it being my first time sleeping with anyone at all, not just with a guy, and try to rectify the situation and cure the terror lurking in my head?

He did.

That, there, is a sign of love, that he is not using me, but that he feels something for me, and he always has, a sign that, to him, I am valued. 

And being valued to him is all, all that matters to me.

I loosen my grip on my body; even my eyelids roll shut, until I think to open them again. Peter pumps his finger deeper into me, and when he runs out of more to put in, he pulls back out. He missed my spot, this time, but with the way he treats me, generous, sweet, calm, everything he isn't out of bed, I have no doubt he will find it, no matter if we're stuck here for the rest of time waiting for me to feel the burst of pleasure associated with it.

He points back inward, a quick dipping motion, like he's clicking with a computer mouse, but then he tilts his wrist, extends the movement, and there it is, I feel it, the bundle of nerves inside me is shaking, and screaming, and imploding under his sweet touch, and I can't feel anything, and I can't see straight, oh God, oh God, he's found my spot, and if he keeps finding it, this feeling will only intensify, and soon, very soon, I will cum.

"Peter!" I scream for him, louder than I thought I could, loud enough that I'm sure every neighbor on the entire street knows his name now. I can't hold it back. It feels as though every pleasure in life, every pleasure I have ever felt and every pleasure I have left to feel, has grabbed ahold of my gut and clamped down, pulsating through my existence. 

And he's responsible. He's the one who forced my little virgin hole, only before taken by my own hand, and by objects not intended to go within its confines, to spread for his own digits, and, later, hopefully, his cock, his gorgeous, sweet cock. He's done this to me. If it were anyone else, this would be different.

"Found it, didn't I?" Peter says, his finger still slinking around my entry, delving inside only to yank out again. "Keep yelling my name. I want you to scream it until you can't remember how to say anything else."

I nod obediently, though I doubt he sees it from where he's standing. He finds my spot again; the sensation isn't as long or as intense, but the pressure is powerful enough to make my entire body shudder in one continuous ripple starting at the torso, and I find the energy to say his name lurking on the very tip of my tongue, lying in wait.

"Peter!"

I am rewarded with another rub at my spot, one that makes my boiling, tensed little sack clench up in a fruitless effort to release my load now, much earlier than I should be, much earlier than I am allowed to.

I scream a third time.

He keeps going. He doesn't know when to stop, when to show restraint, when to walk instead of run. I can't handle this much longer, because though my body wants to cum, right now, right here, the sheer intensity of this is too, too much for me; a burning pain creeps out between my legs, blossoming into existence right at the source of all the stimulation, and leaving every great burst of feeling and every scream of Peter's name laced with an agonizing aftertaste. When I feel as if I can take no more, and the urge to protest tingles at my lips, Peter slows inside me, careful, and deliberately avoiding the lump of my hardened prostate.

"I know you're wondering why I'm bothering to get you stretched out." The finger stops, complete in its stillness, in the heat just beyond the rim of my hole. 

He's not wrong. I don't understand him. 

"If I were to fuck you again, and I made you bleed like a stuck pig  _this_  time," he says, pushing his finger in a little further, "I wouldn't have as much fun the next time around."

"Isn't that the point?"

I hate questioning him. But I think I can make an exception this time around, if only to try to make him a little hornier with some teasing. 

I have no idea what I'm doing.

"What?" His finger stops less than a centimeter away from a particularly sensitive spot, close enough to leave me starving for his touch, what he could be doing to me. What he  _would_  be doing, if I wasn't clumsy and stupid and worthless and if I didn't need duct tape permanently grafted over my dumb mouth.

"You know... destroying me?" I ask, trying my hardest to sound like I'm asking a legitimate question rather than just fucking with him.

He tugs the finger out. I feel the urge to cum right there and then, as my tunnel latches on to his fingertip, rubbing every nerve ending inside me all at once when he pulls away.

"You're a kinky little faggot, aren't you?"

At least what I was trying to do worked.

Before I can respond, his hand, palm open, slaps onto my bare ass. Agony stings through my existence in one solid wave that leaves tears oozing at the corners of my eyes; I fight back a whimper of indignance, brought into existence by the noise of his flesh hitting mine and the pain that slashed its way through every inch of my body from the hips down. I fail, and he hears me cry out. He hit me! He  _hit_  me! He's going to leave me black and blue and sore!

And I liked it. 

All of it.

In fact, I'd love him to spank me again.

"Sure you're a virgin, slut?" he spits.

I want it. I  _need_ it. I need nothing more than for him to beat me until I can't breathe over the weight of my collapsed ribs and the warm, thick blood clogging my lungs. I need nothing more than for him to cut my cock off and rip me to pieces while I'n still alive. I need him to tear me open with his bare hands and choke me to death by stuffing my own organs down my throat. I need him to steal all of me away, snuff me out, and when there's not a single thing left for him, I want him to press further, further, until I am nothingness, a distant memory. I need him to take me to the apex of pain, the apex of pleasure, and touch me again and again until they merge into one solitary being.

But I also need to remain alive and able-bodied to be useful to him, so this will have to do, this exhibition of dominance. It is not as extreme as the fantasies I crave, but anything from Peter is a godsend, anything at all.

Again he strikes me, much, much harder than the first. I'd thought the first slap was his full power. Instead of a whimper comes a complete scream, so loud that the growing vibrations grate at the sensitive flesh of my throat and arguably makes me hurt more than Peter did. 

A sharp ache shoots between my legs, boiling like it's being transported through the blood that stiffens my cock. Even if I could touch myself, without disrespecting him, I'm not sure that I would be able to handle it.

I open my mouth to speak to Peter, but no matter how hard I try, I can't produce anything but disjointed, indecipherably broken noises, disconnected from anything that could be recognized as even an abstract pronunciation of a word. So instead I glare ahead, lying in wait for the next explosion of his control, the drug that keeps me permanently high.

I expect him to hit me again, and if he did, I would love it. But he doesn't; I hear the bottle squeal, and then, his finger is pressed up my hole again, and with it comes another, and one more, for good measure.

This is even better than before. He's hitting places I didn't even know he could hit, and places simultaneously that he couldn't have done with just one. Every breath I take seems to send my entire body, from the very tips of my toes, to my aching, starving cock, to the top of my head, into flurries of spasms that leave me unable to think, unable to know, of anyone and anything that is not Peter. 

But I want him to give it to me. This is fantastic, but this raindrop should be a flood, this word a story, this step a migration. Peter is everything. He should be able to give me everything.

I don't speak a word. He will dictate what I can and cannot have. It has always been that way; it will always be that way.

Three seconds turn to a minute, a minute too much for my aching dick and the strings drawn taut inside of me. With his meaty fingers plugging me up, pressing against every spot that needs to be pressed, gliding over every spot that needs to be glided over, and his presence itself, I lie entombed in the knowledge that he's going to be happy with me very, very soon, and that, right here, right now, I feel the best I have ever felt, and not only because of his touch. I am being engulfed by his existence, swarmed in thoughts of him invading my body, exploiting the trust I surrendered to him to intrude where common opinion dictates he should not be. That is all I require to be fulfilled.

Even with the traces of my earlier impatience still fresh in my mind, I can't help but be a little disappointed when he slips his hand out of me. I was not going to climax from it, but it gave me beyond what I expected, which was a lot, at least from Peter.

He wraps his arms around my waist; I notice he keeps his hands in front of me, as not to get me dirty with the remnants of whatever he used for lubricant. That's unusual, for him. If we were standing by a highway, Peter would find the tiniest excuse to shove me in front of an eighteen-wheeler, if it were convenient for him to do so. He doesn't have any reason to hold me like this.

Of course, he doesn't uncover the thoughts in my mind, the question bachelors searching feverishly for answer wives. We both remain silent as he pulls me back up alongside him.

He doesn't even trust me to stand up on my own. He doesn't even trust me to stand up on my own when I'm only bent  _halfway_  over _._

 _This_  is what being Peter's princess is like. 

And I adore it almost as much as I adore him.

Peter's breaths come slow and rhythmic into my ears as he slides up behind me, until there is no space between the rock-hard muscles around his navel and my exposed back. I was so preoccupied with him that I hadn't noticed how cold it was standing naked. Now his heat radiates through our contact, giving a warmth I didn't know I needed.

His arms travel upward from my waist, until the length between his elbow and his shoulder comes to rest in my armpit. One of his hands, the clean one, and the one he used to spank me, judging by the lack of greasy wetness on my backside, eases across my chest to rest on my nipple. The hand still slick with grease, the hand that, seconds ago, was buried inside my quivering hole, comes to meet my lips. 

The smell is musky, with a hint of something rich and earthy, almost like cocoa butter. It's lotion, of some kind. I'm not sure I should be putting it in either end of my digestive tract, but I'll take the chance of debilitating stomach cramps and a few hours of on-and-off wretching in exchange for Peter's happiness.

And judging by the solid bulge poking into the flesh at the small of my back, I'm making him very happy indeed.

"Eat it," Peter demands.

I do as I'm told, licking his thumb first in loose, loopy circles before popping the entire finger into my wettened mouth. The taste isn't unpleasant; it's flavorless goop with the consistency of semi-melted butter and an acidic bite at the end. I'm willing to put many worse things on my tongue at Peter's command.

When I reject his thumb, giving it one final lick as it emerges for good measure, a twinge, a pinch, sends a blunt, pulsing sting through half of my chest, the half Peter's hand covers. 

"Dirty little boy," he murmurs, slick lips brushing my ear. "You like it when I touch you there, don't you?"

He catches my mouth open before I can respond; he forces it from me by jamming the tip of his fingernail into the nub of my nipple.

The shriek that emerges from me, entirely involuntary, is too high-pitched to be anything but inhuman. It trembles, shaking the air; my throat aches, and yet, I cannot stop. I know I am not supposed to be noisy, and yet, I cannot stop. The flaring dullness that makes up the pain is agonizing, but it only seems to get me harder, more and more hungry for him. It creates an arousal which spreads through me like a cancer, consuming, stealing away, until it has replaced each and every bit of me with pure, unadulterated lust. I  _have_ to have him fuck me until I'm cross-eyed and unable to even attempt to struggle to find a breath. I  _have_  to have him up my ass, pounding me until my hole gives out under its inability to sustain any more brutality, any more abuse.

When my cry dies out, he rolls a finger across the little bud, thumbs at the flesh, slower, more delicate than before, carrying a tenderness I didn't know he had, and that he still manages to surprise me with. A swath of Peter's still-warm breath flows over the top of my ear.

"You feel how hard they are? I bet they'll still be hard when I put my dick in you."

He shoves his lotion-covered hand back into my mouth as far as my cheeks will allow, wedging his way between the lips that had found the serenity of being shut once again. I guide my tongue gingerly over each fingertip, each knuckle, meticulous in my lapping, like I'm a dog drinking from a bowl and trying not to make a sound. I was told to clean Peter. I will do what I was told to, nothing more and nothing less. 

He continues to prod at my nipple, twirling it in sloppy loops beneath his fingertip, only to grab it between his index finger and his thumb and pull and squeeze and tug; I can  _feel_  my pulse rushing through my swollen cock now. I imagine it's a bright, scorching scarlet all the way down the shaft, with drips of precum leaking from the slit, oozing onto the floor in a tiny puddle of off-white as it waits, impatient, for the hole that won't come, that will never come, not until Peter permits me to fuck him or masturbate myself to completion. But I don't dare glance down to check.

When he is clean, and I can find not even a single smudge of white on his fingers, no matter how much I squint or swirl my tongue over his skin, he goes still, no longer playing, no longer moving. His hand sinks down from my mouth, back to his side. He wipes the dampness from my saliva off on my collarbone as his hand descends. His touch leaves my chest.

"Tell me how much you want me," Peter says. Every word falls out high and floating, teasing me in the endless dance that makes up his sentence.

He knows I can't do that. He knows that if I told him how much I want him to tear my virginity right out of me and mould me into his sex-crazed fucktoy, I would be here for a month trying to express it all. He knows that if I told him how long I've wanted him inside me, how long I've wanted him to whisk me away to anywhere as long as we could be alone together, how long I've wanted to feel the delicate softness of his perfect lips against mine, I would be here for a year trying to express it all. He knows that if I were sat at a desk, given a blank sheet of paper, and told to write down everything I love about him, I imagine that, even in my tiniest, neatest handwriting, scrunched up as conservatively as possible, I would fill the paper in less than a minute, and then move on to filling out the desk, and then the floor, and then the rest of the whole planet, until, left with nowhere to go, I began to write on the entire universe, continuing until I reached the edge of infinity and even then still finding things that would kill me inside not to add.

He should know all of that by now, just through the way I treat him, like the pinnacle of beauty, of strength, of bravery, of  _godliness itself_ , that he is.

He should know. 

But if he doesn't, it is my responsibility and my responsibility alone to tell him what he means to me, what he's always meant to me. How much he turns me on, how much I'm in love with him, how much he's done to repair me and improve me and save me just by giving me the blessed mercy of being a part of his life.

"I want to feel the echo of you inside me for the rest of my life."

There is a pause. At any other time, I would think that he was judging me in the peace of the silence, gathering all the criticisms in his head that he's ready for me to hear. 

But right now? We are not stopped. We are not standing still. This inaction is as much a part of what we are doing as the action itself. I condensed all the feelings I've ever had for him my entire life into one single sentence, and when it fell from my lips and into the world it left the impact anything longer would have. In one sentence, I wrote novel after novel of his beauty, his might, his unequaled and consistent excellency even when he was born among a population of the flawed, and even when he took someone who is the opposite of everything he is, the worst role model he could aspire to be, as his best friend, his companion, and now, his lover. In one sentence, I confessed to him everything I've ever needed to say. In four seconds, I gave him the eternity he demanded of me.

That warrants a brief moment of hesitation. 

Something shoves me forward, toward the punching bags; I stumble across the concrete, just managing to grab the balance swept away in a flood of surprise and uncoordinated movement and right myself on my trembling feet before I smash into the one we repaired. 

He pushed me! 

I hope I bruise. I want to see the physical traces of him on my skin for days. If tomorrow I wake up with a violet smudge on my back, I will go out immediately and buy something to wear that will leave it exposed, so everyone can see what he, Peter, my one true god, the one true recipient of my worship, did to my body. I will walk for hours in the most crowded areas I can find with that bruise exposed, as if to brag that I was touched by  _Peter fucking Hayes_.

I keep my head low, a sign of submission, so I only hear the lotion bottle opening, and the squeal as Peter squirts some out, and Peter's quiet moan as I assume he rubs some up and down the length of his erection. We hold this, for a brief time, him standing, me slouched, he being the master and me being the slave.

When he starts back, his footsteps are heavy, a booming thunder against the floor, like he's trying to stomp me into falling on my belly. I have to see him looking stern, wide neck tensed, fists clenched, the gorgeous eyes I would give anything to change the entire world to match the color of gleaming with pride at what he's done to me, what he's about to do to me. I  _have_ to. I turn toward him.

His jaw is braced; his eyes seem follow me even though I am not moving. His chest is puffed up, and his shoulders pushed outward, like he's trying to look more intimidating. He's a foot away, and then an inch, and then he grabs me and turns me away from him in his arms, now holding me the way he was earlier, after he showed me how to punch, and right before he gave me that first innocent little peck on the cheek—

It is interesting how different it feels now, to have him holding me, after all we've done together so far, and with all we've yet to do, the summit, approaching faster and faster, sooner and sooner. There is still desire, tugging me back and forth and back again, but it is grounded, no longer a yearning for something I can never have, but for something that is right in front of me. Things people want always seem to lose their luster after they've been obtained. But not Peter. He only gets better with every second he's next to me like this.

"I hope you're ready," Peter says, "because you get no choice in the matter."

I know what he's referring to. We've both known it, him since he let me inside and me since he kissed me. My heart thumps wildly in my chest, no pattern or rhythm present, like the wingbeats of a fluttering bird finally free of its cage. 

I can't help but feel I haven't done enough. Peter is so good to me. He discovered I was a virgin and took the adequate time to loosen me up. He's given me actual foreplay, instead of just cutting to the chase as he's so apt to do with almost everything else. He's catered to my deviance, and I think he enjoyed doing so. He's treated me with a loving, tender mildness that did not appear even in my most unrealistic fantasies about him. 

So much has been done to make me feel comfortable, far above and far beyond. I should do something back.

"...Don't you want me to do something to you?" I ask, barely able to choke the words out.

"No. You'll get your chance."

As much as I want to get on my knees and fuck his cock down my throat until I choke and have to slide it out to catch my breath, and as much as I, after sucking until my lips get sore and reddened, want to swallow a hot load of his cum, or take it on my face as if he's writing on me that I'm his possession, I cannot disobey his order. If he doesn't want that, then he has a reason. 

And, at this point, I doubt that reason is that he doesn't want to go any further. The way he touched me is too much for someone who doesn't want to do anything more than jack me halfway off and leave me with blue balls, then tease me with the prospect of riding him but never deliver. He wants me. It is a thought I never believed I would get the privilege to face, but it is true, and for that, I must respect his wishes.

Always.

Slowly, as if he's taking the time to not just touch me, but  _feel_  me, absorb my warmth into him and memorize the shape of my body, he curls his palms around my hips. My lip slides between my teeth. I'm so hard it hurts. I want him to pick me up, only to lower me so he can ram his way into my hole. I want him to slide it in right here and fuck me until I'm rendered useless to anyone else, until I'm so injured and loose and hopeless no one else could ever use me. I need him more than anything I've ever needed before. He is my own personal brand of oxygen. 

"Make this easy on me," Peter grumbles. "You're not exactly light."

I'm confused by what he means. Did I do something wrong? I would be ruined if I came all this way, got him all over me, only for him to change his mind. 

But then he tightens his grip on my hips and heaves me up toward his groin with an audible grunt. I'm not at all surprised he can hold me. Though I'm only twenty pounds lighter and four inches shorter, he lifts his own body weight and more multiple times every week. I figure that if he leans me on something, he'll be able to keep me in place, surrendered to him and unable to fight back even if I need to, until he collapses from exhaustion and falls asleep on the floor.

But what is he going to lean me against?

I push my hands out toward the punching bag. If I press it to my chest in a hug, I should be able to stay on, no matter how hard he fucks me. I won't be able to touch myself, but that doesn't matter. I'm his toy. I only need a dick when he wants me to have one.

He sees it too. I wrap my arms around it, tight. I imagine I'm holding him back from leaving me, and if I let go, I won't have him again. That is plenty.

His hands move; I feel the nubs of his thumbs pressing into the small of my back, guiding their way along the jut of bone in the flesh as if they'd known it for years, and then, reaching up to put his palms over my shoulders. Against my thighs, Peter's knees bend; the angles press inward, into my hamstrings, leaving me pinned between the solid surface of the bag on the front and Peter's torso on the back. This leaves an opening, a place where I am exposed. As always, Peter knew full well what he was doing when he put me like this.

He's going to fuck me, right here, right now. I can't wait. Every second chips away at my weakening sanity and leaves me with an aching, persistent hunger deeper than any feeling I've ever felt before. 

Then, something presses against my sputtering rim, demanding entry. I can't tell if it comes from him or me, but a quick pulsation rocks my entire body; for a moment, it's the only thing that seems to move. Peter and I are caught, suspended, in the gravity of what's to come. It might mean nothing to him. For all the years I've spent with him, I am clueless as to what goes on behind those striking green eyes. But it means everything to me, and perhaps that is reason enough for him to stop, whether it be out of guilt, or smug satisfaction at being the reason I'm splayed out like this, hung helplessly in his grasp like a cricket with its leg caught between his fingertips.

Peter eases himself through the first set of muscles in my hole. They part to allow him, spreading open wide enough to fit the entire tip, and then, as he permits it to advance, some of his shaft. He's halfway in, halfway out; there's no way a cock that big can't get in any further than that.

The feeling is familiar but strange, known but new. I've put things inside me before. I spent most of my early teenage years riding mops and hairbrush handles with my breath held in panicked silence at the fear of someone walking in on me and my mind suspended within a dark, smoky fog of shame. I know what it feels like to be penetrated, outside in, to be thrown down and fucked into submission by an external force. 

But there's something special about this. Peter fills me in a way nothing else ever has. He seems to conform to every curve of my insides, expanding and shrinking as necessary, as if I'm able to mould him.

Peter gives a hard, sharp moan that shatters the silence of the air. I must feel good; I hope I'm good enough to please him.

He stops, for a moment, and we are left there, legs trembling, knees weak, hearts thundering until they echo through our chests, lying in wait for nothing and something and everything. I  _do_  feel good, if he's taking the time to savor me like this when he could just fuck me until he cums and refuse to speak of this ever, ever again.

"More?" he asks, with a gentle warmth floating on his tone that surprises me. I brace for the catch. With Peter, there is always a catch.

I find myself hypnotized not by the pleasure, but under the glory of the sheer desire, unable to speak words, unable to find them if I could. But I mumble something out, unsure if it makes sense, only knowing what I want and that I'm willing to say or do anything for it.

"I need it..."

"If you want me to do more than play with you, you're going to have to beg for me."

My heart sinks into a riptide, a torrent of something, feeling, tugging it down, down, down, until it exits my body and leaves me dead inside. My throat is parched, drying more with every hurried breath. Why? He's strung me up like this, and he's sadistic enough to tease me with his cockhead, but he won't fuck me, he won't stuff me up good and leave me sore and gaping for a month, unable to walk straight, until I've begged him.

I can't argue. To be here right now was an honor bestowed upon me by my savior, my king, the greatest thing to ever happen to the entire planet. To even be in his presence, not just like this, but at all, is something I never earned. What Peter wants, what my beautiful, beautiful Peter wants, Peter gets.

"Fuck me," I whine out, a gasping, shrieking plea. Tears of desperation have summoned their way into my throat, forming a lump. I want this. I want this more than anything. I've lived every second, taken every breath, for this and this only. I have one obstacle left to overcome, and then Peter is mine. "Fuck me, Daddy! Please!"

There is silence.

Then there is stinging, pulsing agony, fingernails gripping into my shoulders to part nicks into the skin that burn like someone poured salt into my reddened flesh. He drags me down onto his cock. It sinks in, until there is no air, no space, just  _him_.

My lips go slack, limp on my mouth; I let out a moan I can't do anything to hold in. Beads of pleasure have affixed themselves in great clusters everywhere from the back of my throat to the very tips of my toes, originating in a radioactive explosion from my straining, shuddering hole. I can feel my pulse thumping in my cock, hard and heavy and with no rhythm, struggling to pat in a beat anywhere it can as my entire existence stutters under Peter's will.

Then he starts fucking me. Peter is thrusting, grinding, pressing inward as if his life depended on it, only to draw back again, sliding my rim outward, caught around his shaft, until it finally gives in and slips back into place so it can be pounded again. Pain inches through my insides, cramping, and I fight the urge to cry out again, because it feels as if my intestine is being stripped out through my opening as it's abused. But, at the same time, every movement leaves twitches of ecstasy rumbling through my body in waves that cleave my every incoherent, stuttering thought in two like jagged bolts of lightning splitting a darkened sky. Even the pain is wonderful, when it is from Peter. I want more pleasure, more pain, more of everything as long as it is his.

Peter's hands are firm and heavy against my shoulders. His strength is only more evident in the way he breeds me, like an animal, like he has lost any semblance of control or restraint. He's so big, so powerful. If he so wished to, he could have thrown me down and forced me to do whatever he wanted me to do any time before this, but he waited. He at least respects me enough to have done that. He's earned my trust a million times over.

"You're a tight little one, princess," Peter rasps, his voice low and wispy.

I barely hear him, over the noises of his cock ramming deeper and deeper into me, but there is too much satisfaction to take; I feel the tears brimming in my eyes long before they come. I'm making him feel good. He's making me feel good. There's never been anything both so simple and so complex at the same time. There's never been anything that has destroyed me with glee and rebuilt me with glee only to destroy me again. There's never been anything like this. 

And I owe it all to him, the love of my life, the love of a thousand lifetimes over. 

For a while, it is him and me and the pressure mounting at the deepest point in the pit of my gut. Every time he pulls away, I'm left with only a desire for more. Every time he pushes in, further weakening the ring of muscle meant to keep my hole shut and advancing its transformation into a sloppy, abused mess, I am satisfied. Peter. I think of Peter, and Peter alone; I know nothing more, nothing less, nothing but. He is the match that sparked the inferno burning in the pit of my belly. He is the flame that scorches my insides into dusty cinders. He is the heat that is building in my groin, both addicted to the journey and hungry for the zenith, and so, now, caught battling its own desires.  
  
I don't know how much longer I can last. His cock is thick, and long, and it seems to fill every inch of me, hitting all the right spots in all the right places and never missing. He knows every nerve of my body like his own mind, which are the most sensitive, which are the least, and which to touch to work me up. It's my first time, but it's not his; he knows how to breed a boy right.

And the right way is  _hard_.

"I'm almost there," Peter groans through clenched teeth. A warm, humid hiss of air seeps out behind my ear, right where my head meets my neck; his statement morphs into a kiss, lips kneading, mouth parted. I melt.

I need to ramp it up. I need to work for him. It might hurt. It might make me feel dirty or weak or easy, but if it does, why shouldn't it? I'm a whore. I'm  _Peter's_ whore. I'm Peter's little fucking princess. If I ever had even a fleeting shred of dignity, I traded it away for the glory of belonging to him, my light, my glory, my warrior, king of kings, god of gods.

And, oh Lord, do I want his cum! I want him to fill me up until I overflow, ass too abused and loosened by his monster cock to hold anything more. If he has a disease of any kind, then I want him to cum as deep inside my tight, throbbing hole as he can, so I get it, too, and we can share it together. When he's done using me for all I'm good for, a quick orgasm, and I'm splayed out like a ragdoll under the intensity of my own climax, still too stunned by the aftermath of the waves and pulses and vibrations that come from a good assfucking, I want him to take pictures of his hot load dribbling down my crack and make me hand-feed him chocolate cake while he posts them all on the Internet with my name and phone number attached, so horny strangers can call me and he can laugh at my humiliation and laugh some more when I'm stalked, raped, and murdered. I want him to own me, claim me, make me his possession, the overdependent slave fucktoy he's always needed, someone willing to do anything and take the consequences without so much as a stray complaint, someone who wouldn't have it any other way.

I don't know how to say all that without making him think I'm crazy, and I don't know how to say it in the heat of the moment, where everything is sharp and succinct, so I yelp the first thing that comes to my numb tongue.

"Oh, God, yes! Fill me, Peter! I need your cum!"

I shriek so loud that my throat stings, dry and agonized. It's a foreign feeling. I am not loud. At all times I let Peter be his own voice. But there's nothing he can do to express that thought, so for once, I need to use my own words, for him.

Peter's heard my shrieking; the pumping increases in its angry, violent aggression, faster, faster, harder, harder. I hear the sound of flesh smacking flesh, over and over again in a tight rhythm synced to the cock grinding up my ass, and although I'm not sure what is where, a fiery twinge creeps through my backside, eating its way into my skin. There's so much to feel. Every nerve in my body is hyper-sensitive, aware of so much as the tip of a hair falling somewhere different than it normally does, and every warm breath Peter exhales against the nape of my neck, and the tiniest, tiniest brush of my body against his. 

The tips of my fingers shiver, and even against the solid surface ahead, they refuse to hold still. If Peter weren't behind me, holding me in place so he can fuck me, I would be on the floor, probably with a cracked skull or a broken sternum. That's how I know it's coming. Since he's started I've felt as if I'm going to deflate under the unbending intensity of my own orgasm and disintegrate into a pile of cinders with the heat and strength of my own pulsations, but I always shake when I'm about to cum with something up my ass; whenever I use my hairbrush, I have to position it against my mattress in just the right way, balanced straight up, that I can ride it without using my hands, or risk losing into a black, empty realm of nothingness the climax right as it comes when I'm unable to use my hands at all.

Peter's still going, but now, his hands are even tighter around my shoulders, if that were even possible; sparks fly through my belly, through my groin, and twirl out in my every exhale, illuminating what surrounds me. My blood runs hot and cold all at the same time, bubbling in my veins, rushing from one place to another only to be swept through my heart and sent right back on the same course once again. And then—

Peter gives one last thrust, and that is enough. His solid cockhead swipes over my hardened, engorged prostate, and that is enough. His lips massage away at my neck, his tongue sneaking clandestine laps in and out over my skin, and that is enough.

Everything is enough.

Every muscle in my body tenses all at once, tightening around my bones, tightening under my now loosened skin. A surge of light, of brightness, something that transcends words, transcends memory, transcends any processing or description or label that could be applied, starts in my groin before spreading everywhere else in one single pulse that suspends all of time. For a moment, everything is right and wrong and black and white and fast and slow and now and never and nothing seems faulty and the world is beautiful, because Peter's in it, here, with me, and I want nothing more than to fall apart in his arms just so he can pick my shattered pieces up off the ground and cherish them forever.

Then, as fast as it came, it is over. Everything is normal once again. Peter is still fucking me, but it's even faster than before. There is a warm rush of something, and he stops, his panting thick and profuse.

Each and every last bit of my flesh throbs dully, like there's a series of pipes attached to me that suckles out my strength, my energy. Peter was rough with me, taking what he wanted when he wanted it and caring nothing for my desires, my needs, not that I had any but to fuck him; he could very well have injured me. If he hadn't been careful, I could have slipped off the punching bag and seriously hurt myself. Maybe he did that on purpose. Maybe he wants to show his dominance, that he can hurt me, and protect me, too, whatever his will dictates at the time. Maybe I would trust him more if he hurt me, in some sick, twisted way.

He eases me down from my position, and with a gentleness rarely exhibited from people like him, he tightens his arms around my waist like a belt, a belt keeping me from doing anything stupid in front of him, anything he'd have to feel responsible for, and places me on my feet again, turned to face him. I don't feel as though I've yet been permitted to stand by my body itself; the floor seems to have become the ceiling, and the ceiling, the floor, and the walls, great portals into all of eternity, and everything is spinning, spinning, spinning. I stay still, chest heaving and lips too numb with the subsiding waves of pleasure to even imagine forming words.

Peter is spinning, too, but he still looks as handsome as ever, even though his cheeks are so red that it appears someone has spread blood over them with a cotton swab, and his hair is a shade darker in color and glistening with fat beads of sweat. Wide shoulders tremble with the shells of uneven breaths.

My legs are tired, weak, and, for the most part, feel to be made of half-congealed jelly, but I step toward Peter anyway, like a brace for the smile I know will blossom across my cheeks. It does.

"I love you," I whimper. I barely recognize the sound of my own voice, strained under my spasming throat and the stressful comfort of the wildfires blazing through my core. That would normally incite a burst of alarm, of panic, of fear. Maybe confusion. But it doesn't. Right now, Peter is a feeling. Peter is an emotion, a thought, an ocean to engulf the borders of my island. I can feel nothing when he is with me. Nothing but him.

Peter blinks.

"Come on, princess. Let's put you in some clothes and get you out of here."

I fall in love with him more and more every day, even when I think that I can't possibly adore, respect, or admire him deeper than I already do. For years, I've carried the burden of unrequited love, of knowing that no matter what I do, the only person who I've ever felt anything for won't feel even a twinge of appreciation back. I watched, helpless and bound, as it strained me down, held me back, flogged me and flayed me and broke me until I spent every minute of my life sprawled in a pool of my own blood, blood no one ever seemed to see but me. Maybe if Peter had seen it, this would have happened sooner, and I would never have had to suffer in his name for as long as I did, a martyr in my dedication to his glory. 

Now, none of that matters. He loves me. He really loves me. 

I am rescued.

I am fulfilled.

I am completed.

After all this time,  _I am completed_.


End file.
